‘Ever feel you’re being watched?’ said Rudy.
The path ahead was quiet except for the papery rustle of leaves, the creak and batter of crows in the dark canopy.
Dom leaned his rifle on a mossy wall, reached for his tobacco pouch. ‘Who’d you think’s watching?’ A spark, a pop of gas, a pool of light cupped in his palms.
Rudy shrugged, staring at the ground.
The kid had been quiet since illness struck the town, since the night of the pyre and the burying of what remained. Little wonder – the stink had caught in their clothes, formed a greasy coating on their skin. He’d feared it might never wash off.
‘There’s no one watching,’ he flicked the spent butt over the wall into the lake, ‘cos there ain’t no one left ‘cept you and me.’
Dom took up his rifle, cradling it close on the trudge home.
Written for What Pegman Saw, the cracking writing prompt using Google Street View as its jumping off point. Today we are at Coniston Water in the Lake District. See here to join in, to read and comment.
Word Shamble 